


Like Fairy Lights

by sallysorrell



Category: Flowers (2016)
Genre: Family, Gen, Post-Canon, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 04:31:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6738325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They get together for discussion over coffee, as if they’ve never met before.  And, in a way, they haven’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Fairy Lights

**Author's Note:**

> For Jane (jazzbiscuit) who has very kindly called my jumbled list of ideas 'series two' and encouraged me to turn it into something cohesive.

They get together for discussion over coffee, as if they’ve never met before.  And, in a way, they haven’t.

Maurice’s face will not settle, and he has trouble starting the conversation even though he arranged it.  Weeks ago.

“I…  listened to the tapes,” Deborah says. 

“Yeah,” and his fingers twitch beneath the table; he can’t bother with milk or sugar.

“How long has it been that way?” she leans forward, “Has it been since we’ve met?” 

“I don’t know.” He mentions that he only knows the current date because of the special planner Donald made him, with the numbers large and bold and important events highlighted.  This meeting was done in green.

“I could’ve helped if you’d told me.” 

“ _Stop_.  Stop blaming yourself so I’ll forgive you.  It isn’t your fault.  And I don't think there's anything you can do.” 

Deborah sighs, crumples her napkin, and dabs it over one eye.  Mostly for effect.

“I still don’t think this is working, Maurice.  I want you to get better, and I want the children to be happy, but I don’t want to be here if you won’t let me help.  That _is_ up to me.” 

Very slowly, he nods.

“Of course it is.”

She says she will see him soon, when things have improved.  He feels guilty for not telling her how much they already have.

* * *

Shun drove them home from the hospital, with Donald in the seat beside him trying to give directions and Amy and Maurice sitting silently in the back, staring out their respective windows. 

A little more than halfway home, Donald called for Shun to pull over so he could rush into a shop.

“Probably getting crisps or something,” Amy said, and she laughed. 

He was getting a bouquet.  

This was passed back to Amy with little ceremony, other than the promise it was ‘the weirdest and darkest one they had.’ 

It was allowed to stay on the kitchen table, even long after it had wilted (“It is look very nice there, I think,” Shun had said, when Donald attempted to move it.)

Every night and every morning, Maurice changed the bandage on Amy’s hand. He held it still under the tap and told her it would be better soon; she winced with every application of alcohol.

He did not remark on how deep the cut was, or how much it must’ve hurt.  She told him about Abigail, and about the music in her head.

“I can write it out for you, if you tell me,” he said, when she complained about not having the strength for her next sonata.  He had picked up enough of the terminology and technique from Deborah, over the years.   

“It’s _for_ you,” she said.

"Oh."

He shrugged.  Desperate to change the topic, she asked if his neck was any better, or if there was still a bruise.  She hadn’t seen it yet.

Again, he shrugged.  He never thought to look at it, since he was trying so hard to keep it hidden from everyone else.  He just assumed it was there and awful and obvious.  Despite the preventative angle, he shut his eyes when Amy peeled back his collar. 

“Well it’s not that bad now,” she said.  But she retrieved a rainbow plaster from her collection and stuck it on.

***

Matilda came over two nights that week, to help Donald put his life into boxes.  He had found a tiny house further out of town, with a hangar he could work in.  He talked about getting his pilot’s license. 

“You won’t be such a shit dad if I don’t have to see you every day,” he said, when Maurice caught up with him at the bottom the staircase, holding the last of his books in his arms.

But then he nudged Maurice’s shoulder, just for a moment, meaning this was close to a compliment.

That night, when he was gone, Shun made them dinner.  By the time Maurice sat down, the curry was cold.  It took him an hour and a half to finish it, but he did.  And a glass of water.  Amy smiled across the table.

“It’ll be a bit strange, won’t it, without your brother here?”

“He’s already made plans to stay this weekend,” Amy mumbled.  “Didn’t he tell you?”

Maurice shook his head but did not look surprised.  

“Maybe I wasn’t supposed to then, either.  But I don’t think we should do secrets.”

“It’s very good, Amy,” Shun said.  He joined them at the table, collecting their empty plates in front of himself.

“It is,” Maurice agreed, “I’m proud of you.”

***

By the third week, Amy could sit in front of the piano and timidly tap at the notes.  She hummed along and scribbled in her notebook.

It was no longer the first thing on Maurice’s mind when he woke up in the shed, facing Shun and a pot of tea.  It stumbled into the fifth or sixth thought, but then it disappeared to the bottom of his list.  Never completely absent, but finally prioritised correctly.   _Being there_ was first, now.

Maybe there had been a monster, dark and loud and everywhere at once.  Now there was a faint glow, a hint of beauty.  Like fairy lights.  

When Amy came by to collect him from the shed, she asked how he was feeling.  And that was exactly what he told her.  

He followed her inside, and listened to her play the finished piece.  Shun beat him to complimenting her, but this did not make him feel inadequate.  He clapped several times before he recognised what he was doing.

“Thanks,” Amy said, and she slammed together the covers of her notebook.  

***

Amy still went out cycling; just like Penny’s accident wasn’t the fault of the horse, she told herself.  Often, Shun joined her.  Or Donald, at weekends.  Maurice would walk alongside her, her front tyre wobbling and zigzagging enough so his stride matched without effort.  She stayed close beside whoever accompanied her, so they could talk. 

She would not, however, go out at all if it was raining.  She would stay in her bedroom, huddled up in the Mistake Jacket, listening to the most distracting music she could find.  Maurice always brought her tea.

He passed her the mug and she laughed once, forced and breathy.

“It’s alright,” he said from the doorway, “these things take time.”

“Even umbrellas have got metal in, though."

“Yeah,” he took another step into the bedroom, “that’s how it is.  It’s - that noose - it’s still there, even on good days.  You don’t ignore it; you’re brave, so you deal with it.” 

* * *

“ _Maurice_ ,” Deborah sighs into her mobile, “I am not even out of the car park and Shun’s phoned me _twice_ about coming to stay for the weekend.”

“Sorry,” Maurice says quietly into his.  He has walked past the rows of cars, coffee in hand and phone against his shoulder. “You know how he is.  He’s just trying to help.”

For a moment, it is quiet.  Except in Maurice’s mind, where there is static.  He hates waiting for a response, now that he recognises the need to do so.  But he reminds himself this is progress, and allows time for the silence.

“I know he is,” Deborah says.  “I’m glad.”


End file.
